


Birthday

by someonestolemyshoes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Festivals, M/M, Pre-Slash, colds and sniffles, help him, hinata is in such heavy denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-17 03:12:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11266746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonestolemyshoes/pseuds/someonestolemyshoes
Summary: The Geshi festival comes once a year, to mark the start of the summer, commemorated by a town draped in lavish paper streamers; by great stalls with food, with drinks, with games to entertain; by vibrant music, raucous noise; and, with the sun sailed over the edge of the world and the night sky dark and open overhead, by fireworks.The people themselves come as colourful as the final show, wrapped in their finest summer wear; in yukatas, bright and grand as the fireworks themselves, or else shorts and shirts to fend off the heat. Regardless of what they wear, the people turn out in droves.And as is custom, family and friends gather together in the town, eager to take part in the merriment.





	Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick lil thing for our sunshine boys birthday!! Sorry I have been so absent, I've had a tonne of GARBAGE going on and I've been working on another project, but I decided yesterday that I needed to do *something* and...this is what we got!

The _Geshi_ festival comes once a year, to mark the start of the summer, commemorated by a town draped in lavish paper streamers; by great stalls with food, with drinks, with games to entertain; by vibrant music, raucous noise; and, with the sun sailed over the edge of the world and the night sky dark and open overhead, by fireworks.

The people themselves come as colourful as the final show, wrapped in their finest summer wear; in yukatas, bright and grand as the fireworks themselves, or else shorts and shirts to fend off the heat. Regardless of what they wear, the people turn out in droves.

And as is custom, family and friends gather together in the town, eager to take part in the merriment.

* * *

“It’s—it’s not a _cold_ ,” Hinata says, blowing loudly into yet another tissue, “nobody gets a cold in _summer_ , and nobody gets sick on their birthday!”

Hinata’s mother ushers him back under the covers, she and Natsu shaking their heads in tandem.

“Anyone can get a cold any time,” she says, gentle and a touch apologetic, even as she manhandles him further beneath his bedding, “and birthdays don’t shield you from diseases.”

Hinata huffs, sinking deeper into his pillows. It’s _not_ a cold, he is sure, it’s just….a little extra mucus, a tickle in his throat and a thickness in his chest, a little fuzz about his head—nothing all _that_ bad, like a thin wad of cotton cushioning the space between brain and skull—and a sharp, throbbing ache right between his eyes, which is annoying, _sure_ , but it doesn’t mean he’s _sick_.

And he’s…maybe a little warm, too, but what are they supposed to expect? It’s summer.

Hinata makes this point proudly, if a little drowsily, jutting his chin out over the top of the blanket his mother tucks tighter around his neck.

“You have a fever,” she says.

“Uh-huh!” Natsu weighs in, clattering her way over the floor in her little geta, and pressing her fingers atop the mattress to steady herself. “You’re face is all _red_ , like a tomato.”

Hinata pokes out his tongue. He imagines he is all red, probably, but not from a fever, not from a _cold_.

“That’s sunburn,” he says, indignant. “From the sun, because it’s _summer_.”

“You can argue all you want,” his mother says, slipping a wet rag over his forehead (it feels nice, soothing, not that Hinata would admit it out loud), “you’re sick, and you’re staying _home_.”

Hinata pouts his lip,and folds his arms beneath the covers. He knows better than to push his luck; his mother is the best, she _is_ , warm and kind and caring, but when her foot hits the floor, there is no lifting it.

“It’s not—”

“—fair, I know.”

“It’s my—”

“—birthday, I know.”

“We go every year! It’s—”

“—tradition, _I know_. But you’re not sick every year, and if Natsu’s class weren’t in the parade, we wouldn’t be going either. But they are, so we are, and _you_ ,” she pokes a finger gently between his brows, and Hinata crosses his eyes to follow it, “are staying in bed.”

Hinata opens his mouth to argue once more, at the same moment a telltale tickle itches high up in his nose. He twitches, and a loud, volatile sneeze erupts out of him, followed by a second, and a third, and the fourth sends him coughing.

Disgruntled by his mother’s knowing look (and Natsu’s uncanny imitation of it), Hinata grabs—a little aggressively, maybe, but not wholly unwarranted—at the box of tissues, tears out a few, and jams them up against his runny red nose.

“We’ll be back soon,” his mother says, leaning over to kiss at his cheeks. Natsu does the same, stretching up on the front tooth of her geta to reach over the bed, smacking wet little lips to Hinata’s warm skin.

“Real soon!” She says, and then, puffing her chest up proudly, adds, “and if you can’t win me the biggest, bestest prize from all the games this year, I’ll win it for you instead.”

She gives a hard, decisive nod, and then she turns, and skips her way out of the room.

“C’mon, mama!”

Hinata’s mother sighs softly, a warm smile curling her lips.

“We really won’t be long,” she says, “so you just get some rest, and we’ll bring something home for you, okay?”

Hinata grumbles and, reluctantly, nods his head. His mother stands up straight, smooths out her yukata, and follows Natsu from the room, sliding the door closed behind her.

Hinata stares forlornly at his own yukata where it hangs on his cupboard door, loose, shapeless fabric swinging from the hanger.

It’s not that he’s particularly _fond_ of the festival—there are many, all year round, with the same food stalls, the same drink vendors, the same games and the same music—it’s just, going to the _Geshi_ festival has been something they’ve done as a family every year since _forever_. It feels strange, not going.

All because of a stupid little _not_ -cold.

Hinata coughs, and rolls to his side, fishing his phone up from the bedside table. On it are a number of texts—from Sugawara and Daichi, from Kenma, one from Akaashi (written by Bokuto, most definitely, if the sheer number of exclamation points is anything to go by), and one from Yachi—all with the same message: happy birthday.

And then there is one from Kageyama, that simply says: _you’d better not be sick again tomorrow, dumbass, you can’t afford to miss practice,_ which Hinata takes to mean, _get well soon, we’re nothing without you_ , even though he knows that’s probably not true.

The most recent one, though, is from Yamaguchi.

_Hey!!_ It starts, _happy birthday!! Sorry you weren’t feeling good enough to come to school, but if you’re feeling any better now, Tsukki, Yachi and I are gonna go down to the festival soon so we can watch the fireworks! We’d love if you could come too, so we could see you some on your birthday. Kageyama says he might turn up, which I guess means he’ll turn up if we tell him you’re gonna go? Anyways, let me know soon and we’ll meet you there!_

Hinata blinks down at it.

He’s been to festivals with friends before—loads, both in school and out of it—so it’s not like it’d be new, not really, but he’s never been to _Geshi_ with anyone other than his mother and his sister, and the thought of going with his friends instead feels…a little like graduating.

Hinata stares up at his yukata, and down at the steadily growing tissue mountain in the waste bin, and at the text on his phone, and he knows he should maybe say no. He knows he should maybe stay home, because even if he will never, not in a million, billion years, admit that he has a cold in _summer_ , he will…he will maybe admit that he’s sick, with _something_ , and staying home is probably for the best.

But then, it’s _Geshi_ , and it’s the first day of his seventeenth year—the only first day of his seventeenth year he’ll ever have—so he absolutely, one hundred percent _can’t_ spend the whole thing cooped up in bed.

Resolute, Hinata tosses back the bed clothes, shooting off a quick, _I’ll be there soon_ , to Yamaguchi, and throwing off his pajamas, ripping his yukata from the hanger as he does.

* * *

The evening is still balmy as he makes his way down over the mountain, breathing heavily through his open mouth, occasionally rubbing his stuffy nose on his sleeve. The fuzziness in his head is clearing with every breath of fresh air, and his growing excitement fends off any fatigue as the festival lights loom around the corner.

Even from here, out on the mountainside, the town is alight—tiny, strung lanterns of every colour hang up in the air, from the branches of trees and the arms of street lamps, paving the way towards the center of the town where Hinata can already hear the thunder of drums, the twang of strings and the whistle of winds, spinning their tunes.

He can also hear laughter, merriment, jubilant yells and excitable chatter. The closer he gets, the more infectious it becomes.

The foothill store is about where the paper streamers begin; made of soft coloured paper folded into little intricate shapes, they lie draped over every surface, blowing gently in the softness of the evening breeze. Hinata sighs out a breath, and the wind sighs with him, ruffling the nearest streamer so the paper crinkles and whispers.

The foothill store is also where he meets Yamaguchi, Yachi, Tsukishima and—as predicted—Kageyama.

“Oi, _bakageyama_ , where’s your yukata, huh?”

Kageyama starts at Hinata’s sudden approach and looks down at himself, takes in his shirt and his shorts like he’d forgotten, for a moment, what it was he was wearing. Then he shrugs, and darts out a hand, catching Hinata by the hair atop his head.

(If he hadn’t had this stupid not-cold, he’d have dodged it, for sure.)

“Where the _hell_ were you today?”

Hinata struggles in Kageyama’s grip. His fingers are firm where they grab at Hinata, digging his fever-sweaty hair up by the roots, and though it hurts, just a little, there is a giddy familiarity to the touch. A little of the guilt he’d felt about leaving (with nothing but a note on the counter, a quick, scribbled, _feeling better!! Out with friends - see you later please don’t be mad!!,_ no less) dissipates, replaced by something dizzyingly warm. 

“Mum said I was sick, stupid,” Hinata says, wrapping his hands around Kageyama’s wrist and wriggling to dislodge him, “she wouldn’t let me come to school.”

“But she let you come to the festival?” Tsukishima says dryly, pushing his glasses up his nose. He, too, is missing his yukata, but Hinata is in no way surprised. Of _course_ Tsukishima wouldn’t dress up. Hinata freezes, sniffing loudly.

“…yes,” he says slowly. In his periphery, Yachi and Yamaguchi exchange glances.

“No,” Kageyama says, tightening his hold.

“Ow, ow, _ow_ —oi, Kageyama! I’m—-okay, _no_ , but I’m fine now anyways, so it doesn’t matter.”

“If your stupid cold gets worse I _swear_ —”

“—it’s not a cold!”

No sooner does Hinata say it than another incredibly large, incredibly _wet_ sneeze erupts out of him. Abruptly, Kageyama lets him go, wiping his spit-sprayed arm on Hinata’s yukata and scowling his disgust.

“It’s _not_ a cold,” Hinata says nasally, rubbing his face clean. “It’s…hay fever.”

“Liar.”

“ _Baka—_ ”

“Lets,” Yamaguchi interrupts, grinning a little sheepishly, “lets just give you our presents, yeah? We’ve been waiting all _day_.”

Hinata lets out an excitable little squawk, bouncing in his sandals. They each of them (Tsukishima and Kageyama a little reluctantly) hold out their gift bags, and Hinata grabs at them greedily, spilling his thank you’s. Then, he kneels, settling on the pavement, and pulls the first bag up into his lap. Yachi yelps.

“You’re—you’re gonna open them here? Now?” She squeaks, wringing her hands together. “Don’t you want to wait until you get home?”

“Nah,” Hinata says, already ripping into the first present, “I wanna see what they are now!”

The first gift is from Yamaguchi, and within the wrapping, Hinata finds a neatly folded bento bag, sky blue, with little volleyballs littered all over it. A good replacement, to save him the embarrassment of borrowing Natsu’s _again_. 

The second, from Yachi, is a pretty little notebook. Hinata flips it open to the middle pages to find an array of class notes, all handwritten, colour-coded and easy to follow. The little book covers _everything_ , it seems—maths, English, history, science—and, on the inside cover, Yachi has added her own little touch: a tiny dog, paws propped on a volleyball, and a note that reads, _you’ll ACE the next one!!_

“ _Uwaaaah_ ,” Hinata croons, thumbing through the book once more, “thanks, Yachi! This is awesome!”

Yachi’s cheeks burn pink, and she shuffles, hiding herself a little behind Yamaguchi.

“You like it? I wasn’t sure…”

“It’s great!” Hinata says, decisive, slipping the notebook back into its bag, and fishing his hand into the next to unwrap Tsukishima’s present.

Hinata didn’t expect anything from him at _all_ , much less anything exciting, so he has no hard feelings as he pulls a brand new water bottle from the bag—only a little tingle of surprise, when he spots the Karasuno club colours painted on the plastic. 

“That’s the only one they had in the store,” Tsukishima says sternly. Hinata thinks that probably isn’t true, but he doesn’t question, only utters his thanks, and pulls the last present from the final bag.

Whatever Kageyama got for him, it’s small. Tiny, sits snug in the palm of Hinata’s hand, even in its wrappings. Hinata isn’t all that _bothered_ ; he knows, from past experience, that Kageyama isn’t the best at buying gifts, if the egg separator from Christmas—”What? You like eggs, it’s for eggs”—or the phone case for a phone he doesn’t even _have_ from his last birthday are anything to go by.

Tearing open the top of the paper, Hinata tips the little thing onto his palm, and flips it over.

Beside him, Yamaguchi groans audibly into his hands, and Yachi covers her eyes. Tsukishima snickers a quiet, _“Nice one, idiot,_ ” and Kageyama looks between all three of them, before his eyes settle—reluctantly—on Hinata.

It’s a keychain. A nice keychain, Hinata admits, small and shiny and coloured, much like the water bottle, with their ever-reliable black and orange team strip, except where Hinata thinks the little bold number is supposed to be a _ten_ , like his jersey, instead it’s…

“It’s a nine,” Hinata says. Kageyama shrugs a shoulder, darting his eyes to one side.

“Dumbass,” he says, like his stupidity is somehow Hinata’s fault, “they didn’t have any tens left.”

“Idiot Kageyama! Why not get something else, if they didn’t have what you were looking for, huh?”

Kageyama grits his teeth and takes a menacing step forward, before Yamaguchi presses a placating palm to his shoulder to still him.

“I already wasted hours looking for one in that colour,” he says, and then, “what, you wanted me to waste _all_ my spare time?”

Hinata puffs air into his cheeks. It’s weirdly _thoughtful,_ he guesses, of Kageyama to go to such lengths, more thoughtful of him still to buy Hinata anything at all when the present he wanted wasn’t available, but that doesn’t make it any less stupid, and it doesn’t make Kageyama any less stupid.

Still, Hinata doesn’t _hate_ it. In fact, the longer he looks at it—he slips his finger through the loop and lets it hang, twisting in the soft orange sun—the more he…kind of likes it. It’s almost nice, having something to remind him of his very first setter, of his very first _team_ , and it’s kind of nicer still to see the tension slip from Kageyama’s shoulders as he lowers it, carefully, back into the wrapping, and tucks it away with the rest of his gifts.

“It can go on my gym bag,” he says, nodding. Kageyama digs his hands further into the pockets of his shorts, casting his gaze to one side.

Maybe it’s just the sunlight, or maybe Kageyama has a not-cold, too, or maybe he’s embarrassed because he’s so stupid, Hinata doesn’t know, but what he does know is that from here, he can see the soft pinkish bruise of a blush, high on Kageyama’s cheeks.

“Are we ever going to the festival?” Tsukishima huffs, after a minute. “Or did I come out here for nothing?”

“We’re going, we’re going,” Yamaguchi placates. He pushes Tsukishima’s shoulders, sending him walking, reluctantly, at the front of the pack, Yachi trotting along at their side. Kageyama follows on, trailing behind them, and for a while Hinata simply watches them go as something odd stirs within him.

It’s…Hinata thinks it must be the not-cold, doing something strange to him in the summer heat, but with Kageyama looking back at him over his shoulder like he is, eyes soft in the evening light, the low, setting sun casting a hazy peach halo around him, his heart stutters in his chest, so jarring it jolts him, snaps his spine straight and pumps fresh, hot blood right to his already-warm cheeks.

“What, you just gonna stand there?” Kageyama asks. For a moment, Hinata falters, and then, gathering himself, he strides forward, one step, then two, before he breaks into a run, tearing past Kageyama, past Yachi and Yamaguchi and Tsukishima, present bags swinging from his hands, into the very heart of the festival.

* * *

They begin, of course, with food.

Hinata really isn’t all that hungry. Food has been the last thing on his mind all day, between long bouts of napping, sneezing, and coughing and _not_  having a cold, but when the five of them find themselves in amidst the array of food stalls, suddenly, he is _starving_. Everything smells good—a fragrant mix of sweet and savoury; chocolates and sweet fruits and shaved ice by the bucket load; fish and meat and rice, stews, dumplings, buns; endless choices. Hinata wants _all_ of them.

They flit, together, from stall to stall, buying up pieces here and there, munching them down, moving on to the next. Tsukishima, predictably, complains the whole time, until Yamaguchi buys a slice cake from one stall and shoves it at him. The sweet strawberry dessert keeps him quiet, for a little while.

Kageyama, on the other hand, remains mostly silent until Hinata tries to steal a bite of his dipped apple, and then the fighting begins in earnest. Tsukishima rolls his eyes, and Yamaguchi laughs behind his fingers, while Yachi waves her hands, torn between wanting to part the two of them, and stay far, far away from the battleground.

Hinata grins from ear to ear the whole time.

They pass a drink stand, next, selling an array of sweet-smelling drinks in little plastic cups. Hinata, boldly, asks for sweet sake, and the vendor asks no questions, only holds out one hand for the money, and the other with the drink.

It’s nice, weak in alcohol though strong in flavour. Yachi bites her nails while he drinks, and Kageyama, not to be outdone, orders two for himself, and drinks them both quicker than Hinata can savour his one.

By the time they find the games stalls, they are all full, fed and watered, and Hinata falls into step between them all, smiling as they go.

Never before has he eaten so much at _Geshi_ —he’s never been allowed, and there is no way he’d have been allowed the sake, either, with his mother and Natsu by his side, but without them, Hinata is free to do as he pleases.

It’s…an odd feeling, growing within him, as Kageyama states adamantly that he can win a better prize than Hinata, as they stand together before the first stall, and Kageyama hands over his yen to the vendor. It is warm, the kind of warmth that trickles from his chest to his toes, filling every part of him until it almost _hurts_ , a strange, agonising kind of fondness as he clings to Kageyama’s elbow, offers unwanted instructions over Tsukishima’s snickering behind them.

Between every laugh, there is an old memory, surfacing so suddenly it jars him; his mother, tightening the belt of his yukata one last time, slipping his geta onto his feet and helping him stand. Then, the lights, bigger and brighter than they seem now, huge orbs of beautiful colour, melting into the sunset behind them. Then, the food, sticky on his fingers and his tongue, tacking his lips together. The drink, too sweet, but still he drank more, and the games, playing with his mother’s soft hands to guide his clumsy ones.

Years later, he would do the same for Natsu, and right now, he does the same to Kageyama, though rougher, more demanding, and while Kageyama balks and yells, he doesn’t stop him.

Every memory is warmer, somehow, and sweeter than the last, and they all lead him back to right now, where he stands, laughter billowing out of him as Kageyama throws the last ball and misses every prize again.

(Yamaguchi wins first time, and he hands the little plush dinosaur to Tsukishima with a soft smile, and not a word at all.)

Night falls slowly over the town. The sun takes an age to sink, but soon enough, the only lights illuminating the town come from the hanging lanterns. In the darkness they shine brighter, the vibrancy of their colours even more apparent.

The people around them begin to move, then, and Hinata knows exactly why—to find the best spot from which to watch the festival’s main event: fireworks.

“Are we moving?” Tsukishima asks dully, pretending like he isn’t even a little bit interested (which he _is_ , Hinata knows so).

“We should,” Yamaguchi says. “What about the bank?” He gestures to the hillside, where a huge number of festival-goers have gathered, some standing, some kneeling, some sitting, ready to watch the show.

“It…looks pretty full,” Yachi says, sounding uneasy. She squirms from foot to foot, close at Yamaguchi’s side. “Maybe we should go somewhere else?”

“Nah,” Hinata says. His nose gives a threatening itch, but he rubs it away, and tips his head back to look at the open black sky. “I think here is good.”

“Who says you get to choose, dumbass?”

Hinata digs an elbow hard into Kageyama’s side.

“It’s my birthday,” he says. “So, _I_ say I get to choose, and I choose right here.”

“Giving you a run for your money, huh, king?” Tsukishima says. Hinata sticks his tongue out at him, and Kageyama grumbles threateningly under his breath, but Tsukishima simply shrugs, tucking his stupid plush dinosaur deeper under his arm.

There’s an odd stillness to the night, as the people of the town wait. Nobody moves, and most don’t even talk; the few who do converse in whispers, hissed cracks in the otherwise silence. Hinata vibrates where he stands, close at Kageyama’s side. His nose is still stuffy, blocked and full, and the space between his eyes feels heavy, ready to burst, and even in the cooling night air, he is too warm, but it doesn’t much matter.

What matters is this; Kageyama beside him, so close they can touch, and Tsukishima, holding his plushie loose against his chest, eyes trained on the empty sky up above them, and Yachi, clinging to the sleeve of Yamaguchi’s yukata, lip bitten so tight between her teeth, Hinata wonders if she might draw blood.

What matters is being here, at his first _Geshi_ not with his family, but with his team–his _friends_. Even if he _is_ a little tired, and a little achy, even if he will get the scolding of his life the moment he returns home, every second is worth it.

“When will they start?” Hinata whispers. Kageyama elbows him gently.

“Soon,” he says, quiet. “Shut up.”

No sooner does Kageyama say it than the first firework thunders out over the sky. Hinata listens to it whistle as it whizzes through the air, and then, it bursts, throwing colour into the darkness, and what seems like _hundreds_ more follow in its wake. 

For a long while, Hinata watches the new colours glow, listens to Yachi’s quiet, awed, _“wow,_ ” to Yamaguchi’s soft, breathy laughter, to Tsukishima, clearing his throat, and then, to Kageyama, squeezing out the weirdest, choked sound Hinata has ever heard.

He turns his head, just in time to catch Kageyama’s eyes—bigger and rounder than they’ve ever been _ever_ —staring down at him. Abruptly, Kageyama turns away, and trains his gaze on the sky overhead. The colours up above play over his skin, bursting bright and fading, before illuminating him all over again. They chase a little of the harshness from him, soften the lines of his face, drag the darkness from the creases of his brow and the hollow of his cheeks.

It’s strange, too, but no matter what the colour overhead might be, each firework casts the strangest pink glow over his skin, so pink Hinata wonders if, just maybe, Kageyama has his not-cold, too.

They stand, frozen beneath a thousand, maybe a _million_ falling sparks, like little rainbow stars smattering a sea of black, stretching endlessly above and around them. Soon enough, the noise barely even registers, only the colours blazing overhead, exploding right over the top of them.

Hinata has a hard time focusing on the lights in the sky, rather than the way they play on Kageyama’s skin.

But that’s…that is probably, like everything else, a side effect of the not-cold.

* * *

In his hazy excitement, Hinata had all but forgotten about he was maybe, _actually_  sick, but now that the highlight of the festival has come to a close, the fatigue closes over him full force.

While the others stretch out their dwindling excitement, Hinata sinks to sit in the grass, and tucks his arms around his knees.

He barely hears it, Yachi’s panicked, _“_ Hinata!” or the shuffling that follows, she and Yamaguchi wedging in close to him, shaking his shoulders and touching the skin of his neck and face. Their hands are cool, so much so that Hinata leans heavily into them, and sighs out a relieved breath.

“He burning up?” Tsukishima asks, sounding thoroughly unsurprised.

“Yeah,” Yachi says. “We should get him home.”

“Small problem,” Yamaguchi says, “we don’t know where he _lives_.”

“I do,” Kageyama pipes up. Hinata hums quietly, and nobody listens. “I’ll take him.”

Hinata doesn’t have it in him to argue, not even through all the manhandling, the four of them working to arrange him over Kageyama’s back, and not even as he stands, and lifts Hinata from the floor, hands wrapped securely beneath his thighs. Instead, he settles, arms draped around Kageyama’s shoulders, and lets the reality of his very real, not-not-cold sink into him.

* * *

Most days, the path over the mountain is quiet. Hinata often finds himself alone by the roadside, accompanied only now and then by the passing of cars, rumbling up and down the incline, but tonight, a lazy swarm swims around them. Some people are heading for homes out of town, and others are on their way back to enjoy the last of the party with the rowdier, late-night festival crowd.

Whether it is tiredness or perhaps deliriousness from his fever, Hinata doesn’t know, but whatever the cause, the world around him seemingly decelerates, winding down from the hustle and bustle of the town, like a video played in slow motion.  

The people pass slowly, blurs beneath the bright wink of hanging lights, coloured to match the endless rainbow of the summer sky, stark and blinding against the darkness. Hinata blinks blearily, and the lights flare, casting the passers by in the echoing glow of each bulb. The endless chatter he has become accustomed to is nothing but a rumble, now; vibrations that tickle faintly in his ears.

What is louder than conversation, than the whispered rustle of clothing and the click of geta on the concrete, is the rhythmic _thump_ of Kageyama’s feet beneath them both. They drum a slow and steady beat, strong, unwavering, even with Hinata’s weight to bear as well as his own. Against Hinata’s chest, Kageyama’s back and shoulders rise and fall with every breath, muscles bunching as he heaves Hinata up a little higher, momentarily tightens his grip around Hinata’s thighs.

The night air is a little chill, even for summer, but Kageyama radiates heat. Hinata burrows into it, pressing his nose into Kageyama’s neck just as the wind breathes over them, tossing strands of Kageyama’s hair to tickle against Hinata’s face. He smells good, a little like gunpowder from the fireworks and smoke from the fires, sweet like the amazake, and he smells _warm_ , a little sweaty (not the dirty, stale kind of sweat, just…fresh, a little sweet, and heady enough to flutter Hinata’s lashes), so distinctly Kageyama even under the cling of scents from the festival.

Hinata inhales long and slow, breathing him in.

Going to the festival had been nice. Seeing out the end of the first day of his seventeenth year with his friends (even Tsukishima) had been nice. Watching the fireworks, drinking sweet sake, eating his fill and laughing the sun over the edge of the town had been _nice_ , but this, right now, sleepy and full and wholly satisfied, with Kageyama’s big, warm hands cupping softly over the backs of his knees and the steady lull of his every breath soothing him into a hazy kind of doze, is the best part of this birthday by _far._

The world around them may have all but stopped spinning, but this little bubble, containing only Kageyama and himself, feels wonderfully, sleepily  _alive_. 

* * *

“Oi, moron, wake up.”

Hinata blinks groggily.

The street around them is dark, now, the only light coming from a few house windows and the one streetlight at the end of the road. For a moment, Hinata doesn’t quite know where they are, until he spots his own bike, propped against the side of his own house.

“You’re home,” Kageyama says. “So get _off_ me.”

Hinata does so, slowly and reluctantly. Kageyama’s warmth seeps from him the instant his feet touch the floor.

“Here.”

Hinata rubs sleepily at his eyes. Before him, Kageyama is holding out the bags containing his presents—the water bottle, the notes, the bento bag, and the stupid number nine key chain—as well as one of his geta, which must have fallen off at some point on the journey.

“Thanks,” Hinata says. “For carrying my stuff. And me, I guess.”

“Welcome,” Kageyama says.

“And…” Hinata thinks he should maybe stop talking about now, because he’s _tired_ , and most definitely feverish, but he is too warm and too pleasantly hazy to check himself, so instead of keeping quiet, he goes on, “thanks for coming out for my birthday.”

“…welcome,” Kageyama says again, more quietly this time.

“And for the keychain,” Hinata goes on, a lazy smile creeping over his face. “I like it.”

Kageyama only hums, and that telltale pink flush creeps over his cheeks once more. Hinata wrinkles his nose and, clumsily, brushes Kageyama’s fringe out of his eyes and presses a palm to his forehead.

“You got a fever too?” He asks. Kageyama stares down at him with those big, round eyes again, and with his fringe pushed back and his gaze so blown, he looks younger, softer. Hinata sways on his feet, forward and back and forward again, until he stumbles, right into Kageyama’s personal space.

“No,” Kageyama says.

“Sure?” Hinata asks. “You’re all red. Like a tomato.”

“You’re hallucinating,” Kageyama says, a little too quickly. He waves Hinata’s hand off of him and turns him by the shoulders, frog marching him towards the path to his front door. “Go to bed. Sleep. And…and tomorrow, I’m gonna toss to you until you throw up, so you’d better be there.”

A little zip of energy thrums through him. There is no better present than _endless_ tosses from Kageyama, he thinks, even if they will be a day late.

“Good.”

“Good,” Kageyama says. “Now, _go_ , before I make you.”

Hinata grins, and nods, and as Kageyama turns to leave, he wanders the rest of the way down the path. It’s odd, but the more distance grows between them, the more sober Hinata feels, until he is outside the house and he is _cold_ , and clear, for the first time since their night at the festival began.

The new memories from tonight file themselves in with the rest, with the old one of his birthdays passed, the ones that chased him like ghosts about the festival all night. Hinata wonders if, next year, these ones will chase him too.

He wonders if, next year, he can make even more of these ghosts, not with his family, but with his friends once again. With Kageyama.

At the front door, Hinata stops, and turns, squinting at Kageyama’s retreating figure.

“Kageyama!” He hisses, and Kageyama turns to face him. Hinata steels himself, balls his fists and squares his shoulders, and then, “next year too, okay?”

Kageyama cocks his head.

“Hah?”

“Next year,” Hinata says. “We’ll—me and you—we’ll go to _Geshi_ again, next year. And—and we’ll drink sake, and eat until we can’t move, and watch the fireworks and you can toss to me until I throw up the next day—just like this year.”

Kageyama blinks owlishly at him.

“…okay.”

“And…and the year after that?”

Kageyama swallows, audibly in the quiet street, and nods his head.

“And the one after _that_?”

“Okay,” Kageyama says again. Hinata feels his own face tug into a grin.

“And the one after—”

“Every year,” Kageyama says. He sets his jaw, and though he tries, his eyes don’t meet Hinata’s, instead falling somewhere at the floor near his feet. “If…if that’s what you want. We’ll do it every year.”

Hinata’s heart hammers hard in his chest. Even so far apart, at opposite ends of the path, Hinata can feel anew Kageyama’s warmth, the twitch of muscles and the heft of his breath. It’s strange, thinking about it, so strange it burns the fever in him until it rages, heat settling high in his cheeks, spinning his head.

Maybe, he thinks, belatedly, it’s not just the not-cold after all.

“Good,” Hinata says, dazedly.

“Good.” Kageyama repeats, nodding sharply. And then, “but next year, and the year after that, and every year after _that_ , you’re _walking_ home, dumbass.”

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler alert: the store absolutely had one number 10 key chain left. I wonder where it could be now…


End file.
